


Halfway to Candyland

by jetblackmirror (orphan_account)



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-09
Updated: 2007-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-16 02:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jetblackmirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The long, slow fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halfway to Candyland

**Author's Note:**

> Written during/after drinking too much whiskey and listening to _The Sharpest Lives_.

"There's a place in the dark where the animals go.  
You can take off your skin in the cannibal glow.  
Juliet loves the beat and the lust it commands.  
Drop the dagger and lather the blood on your hands.  
Romeo."  
-The Sharpest Lives, My Chemical Romance

 

Another shot burned its way down to land heavily in his stomach. His eyes stung from the fire. The dark poison like honey to him. Calming his nerves and making his other hurts fade, though it scarred his throat and marred his liver.

He didn’t care, nothing really mattered.

Blood dripped from his nostrils. Vaguely aware of the warmth trickling over his lips and down his chin. It only made him laugh, voice hoarse from screaming to a crowd that didn’t listen. Sheep that didn’t hear.

He wanted to evaporate.

He heard the sickening slap of flesh to tar. The world spun around him, clouds blurring, making the entire sky turn to milk. He laughed again, rolling onto his back and raising his hands up to block the faint sun that taunted him. His hands were bleeding, gravel lodged deep in uncallused palms. Pin pricks of sanity.

There were voices around him, taunting him, laughing at him. He answered back with a venomous curse. Why did they care if he fell? They were just as worthless. His friends, his band. All flies, hovering around his dried out corpse. They mocked him. Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for his last breath. Waiting to lay their eggs in his eyes so that their maggot children might rise to glory as he had.

Glory.

A hand was at his forehead, brushing his dark wispy curtain away, exposing his eyes to the fire of life. Rough. Long digits running over his cheeks, gems gazing at him through painted glass. Soul windows reflecting back his worthlessness.

“Gerard?”

He heard his own voice, pained and frail, whimpering. Pathetic. He rolled onto his side, gagged, then retched. His lunch offered up in _Sūrya namaskāra_ on a plate of sticky pavement.

Arms wrapped around him, drawing him up off his altar. Gathering him and holding him against a beating heart. Steady. Cotton bit into the abrasions on his cheek. He could feel fingers threading in his hair, rubbing at his burnt scalp, brushing the dust and grime away. Fingers on his back, smoothing his shirt down, tracing slowly up and down his spine. Dancing with ballerina steps.

“I want to die.”

The voice, the plea, had come from his own lips, as foreign as it sounded to his abused ears. Lips pressed against his neck, chapped and thin, lingering. He shook then, arms and legs and shoulders trembling with the violent effort of living.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

Abrasive lips moved to his cheek, trailing lightly along, making his skin crawl and his chest ache. He wanted to pull away, to lose himself in his private hell. He pushed against the chest, struggled against the lithe arms binding him.

“No.”

His words were silenced as the lips met his own, pressing. Firm and determined. He struggled more, gasping and choking as he freed his mouth and turned his face away from the unforgiving sky.

“I threw up.”

“I don’t care.”

The firm press was back against his mouth, even more forceful. He struggled weakly, wanting his fingers to shred cotton. Wanting his nails to mar pale skin. The hands around him held him still, gripping tight. Hurting. The velvet touch of a wet tongue moved over his lips, cleansing his filth away.

There was a brief parting as his captor turned to spit off to the side, gasping and coughing, deep voice thick and pained.

“I don’t want you to feel lonely. You’re not alone. We’re all here for you. _I’m_ here _with_ you.”

The mouth was back again, tongue parting his lips and probing deep, rushed and hurried. The tang of his own bile making him want to retch again. There was another break as lips parted. Another sick splat as vomit tainted saliva smacked against the pavement. Then the lips were back, brushing and gentle, words breathed hot against a shuddering chin.

“You need to stop doing this.”

“If I stop it ends.”

“That’s not true.”

His eyes stung, tiny deserts of empty feeling. The steady arms lifted him up, bleeding knees buckling beneath dead weight. His stomach churned, swirling and dipping. The arms didn’t leave him even as recycled venom hit worn shoes. He gasped and choked, a dry sob wracking his chest.

Cotton.

Cotton. Pressed against his lips. Wiping him clean even as he wailed and tried to pull away. Cotton soaking up the blood from his nose. Cotton moving roughly over his hands, bits of gravel and glass tugging at his skin before falling away.

The touch, the care. So gentle. Taking some of the pressure off his writhing belly and refocusing it to his sternum. Vibrating his breastbone so hard his heart nearly burst in a kaleidoscope of blood and gore.

There was a steady weight around his hips, fingers hooking in a belt loop as he was leaned against the stronger presence.

Movement.

Moving. Shuddering steps gradually taking him forward, away from his own fifth and the rubber stained frying pan wasteland. Dully aware of those same unwelcome arms lifting him up, guiding him over the steps and into the oppression of his cell.

Eyes glanced at him, shades of copper, mud, and gasoline. Mocking opalescence. He was drawn away from the stares, into consuming darkness. Tiny matchboxes stacked up three by two, curtains drawn in false modesty. A push on his back and he was falling again, not to tar but on box spring. Hands flying over him, boots and belt removed, denim loosened and shirt stripped. Fingers running through his hair again, shaking over his clammy forehead.

“Do you need me to stay with you?”

A soft gurgle as he rolled to face the impartial wall, shudders returning. The negative was defied as the body joined him again. Heartbeat slamming against his spine. Long arms wrapping around, hands smoothing over hips and waist and chest. Rubbing. Kneading.

Calming.

Chapped lips pressed once again. Trailing over his red and pealing neck, cooling breaths tickling his drenched fringe.

Affection and concern rung electric and unspoken through the scratchy filtered air.


End file.
